


Homo Diaea

by phipiohsum475



Series: Species!Lock [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Body Horror, Crack, Drabbles, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, M/M, Mpreg, Spider!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 15:45:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2513102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So the fandom has wolves and cats and dogs and egg fics, and I just thought there are so many other types of species from the animal world...</p><p>So, spiders!</p><p>(Specifically, the Australian Subsocial Crab Spider)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homo Diaea

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from Arianna68
> 
> As always, not betaed nor britpicked. Feel free to (kindly!) point out my errors! (And for the love of God, please let me know if I screwed up the tenses! This was my first attempt at present tense!)

<Come and play. Bart’s Hospital rooftop. SH>

Sherlock sends the text, anxious to continue his game. His phone pings, and he hurriedly looks down for Moriarty’s response.

<Don’t be foolish, Sherlock. I have this under control. MH>

He growls, cursing his brother’s meddlesome interference. He testily taps out a message.

<Bugger off. This is your doing to begin with. SH>

Sherlock gets rid of John; John always retreats in the face of anger, and the ruse of Ms. Hudson’s injury was just the catalyst to fire him off. Sherlock climbs the stairs to the roof with deliberation, trying not to rush to the great climax and to the great reveal. How will this final confrontation go? He has several contingency plans for this momentous occasion and can’t deny his excitement. John would be ( _correction: is_ ) so disappointed.

-o-

Mycroft bristles with annoyance. In only a few short days, this whole dramatic showdown would be rendered completely unnecessary. As usual, his petulant little brother stumbles into his plot with all the grace of a bull in a china shop, to use the colloquial phrasing.

He rubs his temples, the coup d’état of the rising military faction in Chad will have to wait another day, while he redirects his team. He calls for Anthea, only to realize that she has just opened the door, and the look on her face tells him that Sherlock is indeed doing something exceedingly foolish.

“I need teams on John Watson, Ms. Hudson, Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade, and Harriet Watson.” Mycroft doesn’t expect Moriarty to target them all, but he needs to ensure any wrong moves on Sherlock’s part are not devastating. His long conversations with Moriarty remind him of the fire with which his brother is playing. Moriarty and Sherlock are very evenly matched, which, Sherlock should realize, means that Mycroft is at a considerable advantage in this petty, deadly feud.

-o-

Moriarty is as posh as ever, having shed his Richard Brook persona in respect of this, their final moments together. They spar, the verbal fencing quick, cutting and concise. Sherlock preens; he feels it’s going rather well. Until Moriarty reminds him he has indeed, grown a heart. For the second time in this game of theirs, Sherlock feels the edge of potential loss. Roughly one third of his contingencies plans include a great loss; of his life, of his reputation, of his mind, of _John_.

And suddenly, the game rips out from underneath him when Moriarty pulls a gun and blows out the back of his own head. Sherlock’s brain stops for just a moment, not having deduced this particular outcome. Sherlock’s eyes betray him as he sees the steady rise and fall of Moriarty’s chest. He knows Moriarty could fake the gunshot, but the illusion would be juvenile and beneath Moriarty, so just what is going on?

Then the rhythm turns into undulation, and his flesh punctures from the inside. Sherlock watches in horror as three large spawnlings claw their way out of his flesh. And then Sherlock understands. Moriarty had been pregnant and close to birth, and thus to death. Moriarty had nothing to lose, and now Sherlock will lose everything.

Until he takes a closer look at Moriarty’s spawnlings, strong enough to crawl out of their mother’s hollowed, eaten out body cavity, soon needing the loving, nurturing care of their father. He catalogues the genetic features of the spawnlings, and the balance of probabilities has him stepping back in revulsion. The probabilities shift further as the phone rings in his pocket.

Sherlock answers the phone, speechless.

Mycroft’s voice echoes through the speaker, “We’ve recovered three assassins; your ‘ _friends’_ are safe. And yes, I would appreciate you watching my children whilst I come to retrieve them.”

Sherlock recovers enough to retort, “You disgust me.”

“I am willing do what is necessary for Queen, country, and my little brother.”

“I hardly doubt you seduced and impregnated James Moriarty with no thought of your own pleasure.” However, regardless of his ridicule, Sherlock gathers his nephews and/or nieces in his arms, and they snuggle into his coat.

“Believe what you will. Do know however, that in my many interrogations, I discovered Moriarty’s megalomania to my advantage. He believed our tryst was a matter of his own prowess, and when discovering he was with spawn, decided that spawnlings with my brilliance and his brutality would rule the world. He reveled in it, even as he acknowledged my plot to end his life with their birth.”

The door to the roof opens, and Mycroft steps out, ending the phone call. He remains coolly collected, but Sherlock knows him, and can see the sentiment written on his face. It’s the same look Sherlock used to wake up in the hospital seeing. Sherlock observes that despite any interest Mycroft faked with Moriarty, he feels actual emotions for the three spawnlings; immediately relieving Sherlock of them. They recognize Mycroft instinctively, and clamor all over him. Sherlock even sees the hint of a smile.

“Do you honestly expect to raise three spawnlings? With your lifestyle?”

“No. And I will thank you to use their proper names. My daughter here is Josephine, this young man is Orville, and my last is James.”

“James?” Sherlock sneers.

“It was the least I could do.” Mycroft shrugs, and leans down to breathe in the scent of his spawnlings. “In any event, I have made considerations for them. With the dangerous combinations of genes proffered by Moriarty and myself, it is critical that they are nurtured by strongly moral and just individuals. Clearly, that excludes myself.”

Sherlock scoffs. On this, they agree.

Mycroft smirks. “However, I won’t abandon them. They shall have all they require, and I shall keep a close watch. I have reached open adoption agreements with Gregory Lestrade, Molly Hooper, and one John Watson.”

“You mean-“ Sherlock gapes at his brother, already beginning to panic at the implications.

“John is setting up a nursery as we speak. Congratulations; I believe _you’ll_ be raising little James.”

**Author's Note:**

> Source: http://www.academia.edu/864688/Making_a_meal_of_mother


End file.
